And If You Don't Love Me
by fadefade
Summary: Grief-stricken, lovesick, and unstable, America falls to internal turmoil as his fears and regrets literally tear him into two. Can England put behind his own broken heart and broken pride in order to save his former brother from self destruction? USUK
1. Prologue I

Author: Leave it to me to post a not so merry USUK fic two days before Christmas. I am an overall optimistic person, really I am. Things just happened this way, I guess.

I've realized that writing for me is like pulling teeth. So please tell me if you like in order for me to commence with the pulling and produce new chapters D;

Alfred = America, Arthur = England. I will use interchangeably

Writing intimate scenes is awkward, and I don't know if I should label it "M" ._.

Summary: Grief-stricken, lovesick, and unstable, America falls to internal turmoil as his fears and regrets literally tear him into two. Can England put behind his own broken heart and broken pride in order to save his former brother from self destruction? USUK

* * *

_**And If You Don't Love Me**_

Prologue I

"Do you love me, Arthur?" A twelve year old Alfred asked, clinging tight to his brother's side.

"Of course I do. You're my brother." An innocent answer to an innocent question.

"You always say the same thing."

"It's always true."

Alfred buried his face into Arthur's white linen sleeve. "Why do you have to leave, then?"

"I…" Arthur could have said many things—war, trade, duties to the king—but instead, he settled with, "…I'm sorry. I promise to be back as soon as I can. Do your best and be strong."

Alfred nodded, averting his gaze and fighting back tears. The last thing he wanted was for Arthur to see him cry. Big boys didn't cry, and Alfred wished he was stronger for Arthur. After all, Arthur was all that mattered.

* * *

By the time Arthur returned, Alfred had sprouted like a weed. Although he was a bit on the thin side, still not fully grown into his height, he managed to peak his forehead above his brother's unruly hair, much to Arthur's initial disbelief. Alfred was awkward at first, uncertain of how to behave around Arthur. He was too mature, both physically and mentally, to be hanging on to Arthur's arm or leaning onto his shoulder like he used to in his boyhood. Nevertheless, he still had the same undeniable urge to touch Arthur, to feel his hand, his clothes, and his hair, to hold and be held.

One mild afternoon, as they lounged on the bench of the porch, Alfred rested his head on Arthur's lap and felt a hand gently threading through his hair. The autumn air was cool against his skin, a pleasant alteration from the suffocating heat of the summer, and the leaves were gradually changing hues, from deep green to various tinges of red, yellow, and brown. That was when Alfred tentatively concluded that he had always seen Arthur as someone much more than a brother. He had a crush on Arthur ever since he was eight years old, and grew to accept it ever since fifteen. Now at nineteen, he was stronger, braver, more confident, and more reckless—no longer shy in conveying just how he felt, for better or for worse.

He wondered if Arthur knew. _He must have known_. It was pitifully obvious how Alfred would brush his hand across Arthur's every time they passed, or how he would hang on to good-night-kisses much longer than he should. But Arthur always ignored it, brushing it off as a phase, or puberty, or anything but love. They were brothers, and nothing hurt Alfred as much as that.

"Do you love me, Arthur?" Alfred, resting his head on Arthur's lap, looked up into a pair of emerald green eyes.

"Of course I do. You're my brother." A disappointing answer to a silent plea.

"I love you too," Alfred said softly before taking Arthur's hand and bringing it to his lips, placing butterfly kisses on Arthur's fingertips.

Arthur's eyes, above him, dimmed.

* * *

It was cruel how Arthur denied Alfred in that subtle manner of his, refusing to acknowledge Alfred's feelings and yet showering him with the same brotherly affection as he always did. Alfred had placed Arthur in a tough situation, he admitted, but if Arthur had a modicum of courage and sympathy, he would not toy with him so. Alfred wondered just how long Arthur could sustain this game of pretend. False illusions fade and die, and he had to confront reality sometime.

"Can I sleep with you tonight, Arthur?"

Arthur propped himself up on his elbows, rubbing drowsiness out of his eyes. "Did you read a scary book again?"

"Yes." Alfred lied.

"That's why I told you to stop," Arthur yawned, motioning for the other to come, "You really shouldn't be scared of books anymore."

Alfred slipped under the covers, nodding solemnly.

"It's funny, you know," Arthur mused, drifting into light sleep already, "Even though you're big now, you're still a kid. You never change…"

_You're wrong_. Alfred stared wistfully at Arthur's unconscious face. _You never change. You refuse change. I want change, and you can't ignore me forever._ He hovered above Arthur, hands resting on either side of his Arthur's head. His fingers brushed pass a lock of blond hair panned out against the pillow. Lightly veiled with silvery moonlight, Arthur's pale face gave off an almost ethereal glow—unworldly, untouchable, _beautiful_. Alfred wondered if Arthur was really asleep.

He pressed his lips against other's, biting softly. Arthur's eyes shot wide open.

"Alfred. W-What are you doing!" Arthur pushed at Alfred's shoulders as Alfred traced his lips across the other's face in a series of wet kisses. "Stop!"

"Why?" Alfred whispered into Arthur's ear, his breath ghosting over his ear.

Arthur gasped, struggling with renewed vigor. "What do you _mean_ why? Do you have any idea what you're doing? We're brothers! Y-You can't do this!"

"But I want to." Alfred pinned down Arthur's resisting arms by the wrists, and lowered his body on top, careful not to apply too much weight. He slid his tongue across Arthur's jaw line and down his neck. "We're not really brothers." It was not a lie; they did not share the same blood or lineage. They were not really brothers.

"I raised you!" Arthur protested, fighting against Alfred's grip. "I found you, and I raised you! Ever since that day, we're brothers!"

Alfred did not retort but bit down into Arthur's neck, leaving a mark. Arthur thrashed about violently below with little success; their strengths were evenly matched. However, when Alfred began unbuttoning Arthur's shirt, kissing from his collarbone to his chest, Arthur drew the line.

"Alfred, you insolent child! Do you have any idea how angry I am? Get off of me this instant!" Arthur shouted in his most threatening and authoritative tone and Alfred froze, giving Arthur enough time to push the younger man off. He quickly maneuvered himself to the opposite end of the bed, ready to evade and possibly assault if Alfred made another advance.

"I do not know what possessed you to do this," Arthur said dangerously, panting, "but you had no right. How dare you try to force yourself on _me,_ of all people? I'm your brother, Alfred, and I have no intention of doing that sort of thing with you."

Arthur left the bed and stalked angrily out the door before slamming it. "Don't follow me!"

Afterwards, Alfred lay awake alone, staring blankly at the ceiling. Whatever warmth Arthur had left behind was gone. He knew he got himself into a world of trouble with this little antic, but he had no regrets. He was not Arthur's cute, innocent, little brother anymore, and he didn't want to be. He needed to be acknowledged, and neither of them could go on pretending otherwise. Alfred slept as much as he could that night, ignoring the tiny pain in his chest that panged with every heartbeat.

* * *

Alfred cautiously descended down the stairs and into the kitchen the following morning, expecting calamity. He found Arthur by the stove, struggling with breakfast.

"Good morning, Arthur," Alfred swallowed, fully prepared to confront any fury Arthur might unleash.

"Oh, good morning," Arthur said without even averting his attention from the pan and spatula, "Go sit over there. I'll be done with breakfast shortly."

Arthur placed a plate of charred and mysteriously unidentifiable foods before Alfred. Alfred had given up guessing his meals a long time ago, and simply dubbed them 'breakfast,' 'lunch,' or 'dinner' according to the time of day. He poked listlessly at his plate with his fork as Arthur made idle chit-chat, smiling.

Arthur was such a good actor, speaking with his usual calmness and articulation that even Alfred wondered, for a brief moment, if everything that happened last night were merely a dream. However, when he noticed a red bite mark bright against Arthur's neck, far too up for his shirt collar to cover, Alfred knew it was far from being one. _How could he act as if nothing had happened? _

Realizing the source of Alfred's distraction, Arthur covered his neck with his hand immediately. "Don't worry about it."

"You're not mad?"

"No." Arthur gave a woeful smile. "You're my brother, after all."

_You can be really cruel sometimes, Arthur. _

_

* * *

_

It rained that day, and rain had always been a bad omen. It had rained after the death of Julius Caesar, the death of Jesus, the death of greatness, and the death of heroes. But, this day was supposed to be a happy day. America achieved freedom and independence, no longer bound to Great Britain as a colony and finally able to gain a modicum of respect from the other nations. _So why did it rain? _

Alfred wondered solemnly, trying his best to suppress his regret as he towered over Arthur's defeated figure, pretending that Arthur's tears were merely rainwater. As much as Alfred wanted to kneel beside the defeated nation, to block the rain and the cold, he knew it was useless. Their bond was already severed, and Arthur would not take him back.

After the merriment and celebration settled, Alfred lay awake in his tent, bathed in the dull amber glow of candle light. The British fleet sailed off by now, and Arthur was gone. Alfred contemplated over the grim reality of never seeing Arthur again, or at least not for a very long time. He wondered if Arthur would ever forgive him. Does time really heal all wounds? If so, how long would it take to mend a broken heart? Nonetheless, Alfred needed time. He needed to emerge stronger, richer, more influential, and more respected, so that when he took Arthur's hand again, he would not be shelved as an adolescent in the midst of puberty and hormones. America would become a splendid nation, so splendid that even Arthur's pride and aloofness could not dismiss. Everything was for Arthur, Alfred decided. After all, he really loved him.

* * *

Author: Just a writing prompt to get my writing juices going. Tell me if anyone likes D;


	2. Prologue II

Author: I wish I wrote this while I was still taking World or US History. I had to brush up on some history lessons, but I'm still not convinced that everything here is historically accurate, so please bear with me OTL

And thank you for the support. I will try to continue this.

Disclaimer: Everything Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya, "War is over" belongs to John Lennon

* * *

_**And If You Don't Love Me**_

Prologue II

"'This accession of territory affirms forever the power of the United States, and I have given England a maritime rival who sooner or later will humble his pride.'"

A dark-haired man, clad in the navy blue and gold uniform of the Spanish Armada, gave a throaty laugh. "You gave America the Louisiana Territory, did you, France? That's like an insult to injury. I almost feel bad for that England!"

The Frenchman lifted his gaze from the parchment. "England is strong no doubt, but his excessive pride and mounting recklessness will make him a danger to himself and an enemy to the world. It is time for someone to put him in check."

"And wouldn't that be your place?

"If Bonaparte lives up to his name…Either way, I have planted my seeds in America."

"You really _do_ live to defy England." Spain leaned back into the cushion of the sofa, with his legs crossed and arms behind his head.

"That is our history."

"Tell me. How is England coping with the loss of America?"

France, sitting across from Spain, rested his elbow on the armrest of the chair, contemplating. "He schools himself well, exhibiting nearly the same power and determination on the battlefield as he did before. However, he has lost some life—vigor—as it seems. There is a dull glow in his eyes."

Spain gave out a little chuckle "Who knew underneath all the wine and glitter, you truly are a conniving, heartless bastard. You really could have broken England, you know?"

"What he experiences is nothing new," France said indifferently, "I lost Canada to him in 1760. And are you so quick to forget South Italy?"

Spain's features darkened immediately.

"America wanted independence, I'm sure of it. He was the one who came to me." France pushed back a stray lock of blond hair behind his ear. "I played a relatively small part in his Revolutionary War."

"So America and England. They detest each other?" Spain inquired, seemingly recovered from France's last statement.

"Their relationship is definitely strained. Although, I'm afraid it is much more complicated than simple hatred."

"Then, are you so sure to pit the two against each other?"

"No," France rose from his armchair, slightly brushing off the creases from his maroon jacket. "But America is headstrong and arrogant, and he cherishes his independence. He will never willingly succumb to England's influence again, as he did when he was a colony. America will not be a threat to us, at least not for the time being."

France walked to the door with swift, graceful strides, motioning for Spain to follow. "Come," he said as his hand reached the doorknob, "War in Europe commences."

* * *

Alfred considered himself fortunate. The great Atlantic was enough to shield him from the bloodshed that plagued Europe, allowing him to prosper while Europe fell apart. Although his new leader had established a policy of isolationism, Alfred could not help but be tempted to involve himself with the war. He found the mornings to be the most exciting time, as he eagerly flipped through the newspaper to see if any new advances were made since the day before.

_The British is blockading the French coast, huh?_ Alfred chewed on his bottom lip. _This gives Arthur the upper hand…_

Alfred shook his head to rid himself of the thought. He was to remain neutral throughout this war, as he had promised. After all, America had just achieved independence and was far too weak to be involved in the clash between world powers. Moreover, how can he choose between France, who sacrificed so much in order to aid him in his fight for freedom, and England…_Arthur_...

Alfred had not forgotten about Arthur, even though years had passed since the Revolution. Every moment of the day, every action he made, Alfred had Arthur in mind. He realized, throughout the years, that the only way to earn the acknowledgment of great nations, such as England, was to exhibit equal power and influence. Alfred had always envied France in a sense; although he and Arthur quarreled ever since the beginning of their existence, France still had every morsel Arthur's attention in his grasp. Countless times had Arthur unexpectedly shortened his stay with Alfred in order to deal with French advances in Europe. Nothing could be worse than being nameless, Alfred concluded. Only by earning Arthur's acknowledgment and respect can he possibly hope to gain anything more.

_I guess it is for the best._ Alfred closed the newspaper. _My place is here, for now._

Alfred stepped outside and leaned against the white banister of his front porch, bathing in the warmth of the bright morning sun. The fresh scent of grass, newly soaked with April showers, filled his lungs, as the whimsical notes of song birds echoed in his ears. Light winds rustled among the leaves and carried idle clouds across the clear blue skies.

It was a beautiful day in America.

* * *

_War is over, if you want it._

_War is over, now…_

_

* * *

_

War in Europe came to an end, and despite the debris that filled the city streets, England remained the leading world power. Ironically, everything, from the skies to the seas, was amazingly still, as if death and devastation had finally brought silent peace. And Alfred, after decades, landed his foot on England's shore, with his heart fixed ever so tightly in his throat. His long anticipated moment had come at last; he was going to confront Arthur.

Alfred stood before a delicately-carved mahogany door, the entrance to a large English mansion—_Arthur's _mansion. He had dressed himself in his best, a dark navy-blue jacket, a gray waistcoat, and white breeches. He even combed his hair, although a stubborn strand remained erect in the front. As he reached up to flatten the rebellious lock, his fingers brushed against the frames of his glasses, reminding him of how he had chosen to sport eyewear. Glasses made him appear more mature and more intelligent; they also helped him read fine print. He did not regret his decision.

After dawdling for nearly half an hour, Alfred finally braced himself, taking in a deep breath of air as he lifted a shaky hand to the door. Just as he thought his heart would burst out of his chest, a familiar nonchalant voice behind him asked:

"Can I help you with something?"

Alfred felt as if he had jumped up a foot, although he hoped he hadn't. He turned around without even attempting to school his flustered appearance.

"A-Arthur!"

"America?" The Englishman's eyes widened for a brief moment before skepticism washed over his features. "What are you doing here, America?"

"Arthur, I-I…," Alfred swallowed. "I…uh…wanted to see how you were…s-so can I…?" Alfred motioned to the door, wincing at his failure at speech.

Arthur made no reply, but reached for his keys. That was invitation enough for Alfred, as he followed the Englishman inside, furtively glancing at every direction of the mansion's interior. Nothing had changed, Alfred mused. The floor was the same dark marble, and the same velvet green curtains and portraits of English nobility adorned the walls. _Arthur never changes_.

"All I have is tea," Arthur placed a tea set onto the table with a clink. "I know you do not like tea, but I was not expecting company this afternoon. Otherwise, I would have prepared something else."

"No, no, tea is fine." Alfred took his teacup with a smile. He could not help but to stare at Arthur from head to heel. Arthur was still the same, as compelling as ever with his graceful strides and poised hand gestures every time he poured tea. Although, perhaps not everything remained unchanged as Alfred noticed how much thinner and paler Arthur looked in his black overcoat. And his eyes—his once dazzling green eyes—were dulled with worry and fatigue, a tell-tale sign of a war-torn nation.

Arthur cleared his throat. "Did you want to discuss something, America?"

The tea, despite its bland bitterness, soothed Alfred's unsettling stomach, and Alfred was thankful, replying with calm articulation, "I wanted to see how you were, that's all. It's been decades."

Arthur arched one of his prominent eyebrows. "I just emerged from a war, and I'm in the midst of recovery. Needless to say, my country is not in its optimal state. Thus, I am very busy, so perhaps this is not the best time for a casual visit."

"Oh!" Alfred showed more enthusiasm than he intended, "This is not just a casual visit. I want to form an alliance…with you. I want to help…"

Arthur narrowed his eyes, replying with restrained irritation, "Such careless words, America. Have you forgotten your policy of isolation already?"

"I-I…no." Apparently the tired, irritable, war-torn Arthur was much more difficult to converse with, and Alfred hadn't felt this uneasy since declaring independence. "Not an alliance between the nations. I wanted to form one with…just us. Alfred and Arthur..."

By the furrow in his brows and the scowl on his face, Arthur was not convinced. Alfred took a deep breath, recited a quick prayer in his head, and continued. "I can stay here for a little while. I finished all my paperwork before coming here. I know that you're busy and all, but I can help. I can prepare meals or do some household chores for you. I-I just want to catch up...It's been decades, Arthur…"

Arthur exhaled a quiet bitter laugh, almost scathing. "As much as I _appreciate_ the offer, I'm afraid I must decline. It will take much longer than decades before I can even consider such a proposal from you."

The aloofness and ridicule in Arthur's remark were enough to snap every fiber of hopeful optimism in Alfred's being. With rage building steadily inside, Alfred rose from his chair and stalked towards the seated Englishman. Momentary shock swept across Arthur's face before a mask of indifference concealed all visible emotion.

"I might not have the history or influence of great European powers such as _yourself_," Alfred said resentfully, tone rising, "but I am still an independent nation, and I deserve at least some degree of respect from you. I offered my hand out of genuine sincerity, Arthur, so why do you treat me so coldly? Is it because I'm too young, too unrefined? Or is it because of _your_ excessive pride?"

Arthur had the audacity to laugh again. "After everything that has happened, is this all you've managed to conclude?"

"Then, why, Arthur?" Alfred yelled out with angry exasperation, "Tell me, why do you treat me like I'm not worth shit."

"I do not want you close to me because seeing you makes me miserable." Arthur scoffed after a long pause, clearly irritated. "My decision has nothing to do with your youth or my pride. I simply do not want to be reminded of the time when my so-called younger brother betrayed me and humiliated me in front of the world. Your face reminds me of only that, and I do not want to see it. Now, please, leave my country."

"Is that why? A-Arthur!" Rage was replaced with desperation, as all of Alfred's expectations seemed to fall apart before him. "That's why I came back today. I want to make everything better. I didn't mean to hurt you. I—"

"You are an insufferable idealist," Arthur spat, "if you think a broken relationship can be mended by something as simple as a visit and a gesture. I am wounded and bitter, and I am not generous with forgiveness."

"I-I know, but…Arthur! I had to do what I did. I needed you to acknowledge me, to treat me as an equal."

"What do you have to complain about the way I treated you? I treated you better than I've treated anyone else!"

"But you've never taken me seriously," Alfred was flustered and yelling by this point. "You never had the time of day for me during the war, and you never allowed me to help. I was just a colony, I wasn't worth anything. You told me to wait, and I waited, but all of your time and energy were spent on other nations! That's why I became a nation, Arthur. Because of you! I love you, Arthur! I still love you! I—"

"You're doing this because of _me_? You _love_ me?" Arthur began to laugh, bitterly and hysterically. "This is golden, this really is! Tell me America, when did I ever ask for you to sever our bond as brothers and form a pact with a country whom I detest?" Arthur smiled a bitter, scornful smile, and each word he articulated was a dagger aimed at Alfred's heart. "I loved you back then, I really did. I loved you as a brother, but you did not love me. You would not have caused me so much pain if you did. And you do not love me now. Frankly, you do not know what love is."

"That's not true." Alfred said darkly as he towered above Arthur, gripping tightly onto his shoulders and pushing him back into the cushions of the armchair. "I love you, Arthur. I've always loved you. Just not in the same way."

"Oh, not this nonsense agai—" Alfred covered Arthur's lips before he could finish the sentence. Arthur promptly began to push and kick, but with no avail. Alfred had grown since his colonial days, and never before had Arthur seem so small and breakable. "For the love of God, unhand me, America!"

"Don't call me 'America.'" Alfred continued with soft licks and nips. "My name is Alfred. Call me Alfred."

"I-I refuse." Arthur gasped as Alfred traced his tongue on the shell of his ear.

"Then, I refuse to stop." Alfred unbuttoned Arthur's coat with an ungentle hand, and carelessly pulled at Arthur's white linen shirt.

"Let go, I-idiot! I said, let go! Damnit! Let go!"

_Smack!_

A pair glasses lay on the dark marble floor, lenses cracked. Arthur stared gravely at his now reddening hand, refusing to look up. Alfred separated himself from the English nation, gingerly touching the cheek that was stuck.

"I...I guess it's time for me to leave." Alfred smiled woefully, realizing the hopelessness of the situation. "I'm sorry for intruding on you like this…" He took out a small, carefully wrapped package from his coat and placed it lightly onto the table. "A gift I made. I hope you will accept."

Arthur said nothing, but stared at Alfred with angry tears threatening to spill from his emerald green eyes. _Why does he look like he's about to cry? _Alfred mused. _I was the one who got hit. I should be the one who feels like shit._

He straightened himself, wiping the creases off of his jacket and running a hand through his now tousled hair. "Good-bye, Arthur. I hope you will forgive me someday."

Alfred led himself to the exit. Although he did not look back, he could feel Arthur's gaze bearing down on the back of his head. He stepped outside into Arthur's garden, softly closing the front door behind him. The garden was lovely, with its arched rose bushes, bird baths, and statues of angels. Alfred strolled leisurely from the house to the front gate, admiring the intricacy of the patio furniture and garden ornaments. His bruised cheek was finally starting to sting, but that was the least on his mind.

All in all, he had miscalculated, and his mission ended in failure. Although discouraged, Alfred refrained himself from sinking into despair, for Arthur meant too much to him to give up so willingly. Time was all they needed, Alfred concluded. Only time would allow Arthur to forgive their past and open his mind to the slight possibility of letting Alfred back into his life again. There will be plenty of time, plenty of chances for him to confront Arthur, he needn't worry. After all, he was going to become a splendid nation. He was going to live forever.

* * *

Author: And when I wrote "Either way, I have planted my seeds in America," no sexual innuendo intended…but then again, it's France…

Why are all my characters so…serious? War is serious D;

And did my writing style change since the last chapter? O.o

Please Review ;D


	3. Chapter 1: Two Americas

Author: Ugh, sorry for not updating for awhile. I wish a college would just accept me already. I hate doing supplements, grrr!

This is my first USUK fic so I'm being really slow and careful and editing a lot. I want to make it plotty… D;

* * *

_**And If You Don't Love Me**_

Chapter 1: Two Americas

"Who are you? What are you doing here?"

"America. I believe that answers both questions."

"Such treachery. There is only one America, and that's me."

"Ah yes, I see how this can be confusing."

"Tell me, who are you, and why do you look—"

"Like you? My face. Does this not prove that I'm America? That there are two Americas? But do not fret, Alfred Jones. There won't be two Americas for long."

* * *

"Damn it, damn it, damn it all!"

Alfred pounded his fists against the wall of his office, his body quivering from trepidation and doom. _First South Caroline, now Mississippi, Florida, Alabama, Georgia, Louisiana, Texas…What to they think they're doing? They'll tear the country apart!_

The secession of South Carolina had unleashed a plague of rebellion as the Southern states withdrew one by one, falling like dominos. No matter how much Alfred strived for peace and compromise, war between the North and South became imminent, and it will end in devastation as all civil struggles do. Alfred rested his forehead against the wall, forcing a bitter smile to his lips. What a twist of fate. It wasn't supposed to happen. America wasn't supposed to end up like this.

"My, my, Jones." A familiar sardonic voice cut through the stony silence of the dimly lit office. "You really are inept at what you do."

"You come at the worst time possible, you realize that?" Alfred groaned, and turned to face the speaker, who sat loftily in his armchair, legs crossed, eyes half-lidded, and lips curved into a mocking sneer.

"I _do_ apologize."

"Why—" Alfred sighed wearily, directing his exasperation more towards thin air than the man before him. "–are you here?"

"Well." The other pointed a gloved finger to himself. "I'm America."

Never before had Alfred found his own complexion so irksome, as he stared down at the man whose visage mirrored his own—the man who evidently found great enjoyment in his misery. "You are not America. I refuse to recognize a hallucination as America."

"A hallucination?" The imposter feigned a frown. "How insulting. Is this anyway to treat a kin? We are practically kin, don't you think?"

"Actually…" Alfred dragged himself to his desk and slumped into the chair, face buried in his hands. "I shouldn't even be talking to you, a hallucination." His grievances were slightly muffled, but he paid no regard. He was talking to himself basically, which was nothing out of the ordinary. Alfred was perfectly sane, thank you very much. In fact, the only thing that could possibly be deemed _insane_ was this physical manifestation of stress and anxiety sitting smugly before him, appearing very much alive and solid, and not to mention, _chatty_.

Alfred groaned again. He should have expected something like this to happen. It was typical for nations in distress to fall ill. Some developed high fevers, others intense chest pains or severe flu symptoms, but not America. America was special, exceptional, _unique_—in fact, so unique that he became the single distinctive nation to experience not only physical discomfort but also mental degradation. Alfred groaned for the third time, eyeing his carbon copy with contempt before finally deciding to humor himself with the evidence of his own madness.

"So which one are you?" Alfred sighed. "The radical North? The conservative South?"

"Neither, Jones," said the other rather nonchalantly, "I'm very much like you, actually. I only want what's best for America—unification, prosperity, influence, respect." He tilted his head and smiled with ambiguous sincerity. "However, I'm afraid America is doing quite poorly in the listed criteria at the moment…"

"So you are here to take my job." Alfred cocked an eyebrow.

"Why must you think the worst of me?" The other America heaved a sigh, although more out of humor than exasperation. "I'm simply here to offer a second opinion, one that's not so bent on hopeful heroism but more on pragmatism and necessity. My intentions are pure, I promise. I want America to thrive just as much as you do."

"Maybe I do need a second opinion," Alfred laughed, "but certainly not from you, a hallucination." He attempted to mirror the other's smug facade and deemed his effort a success. They shared the same face, after all.

The hallucination frowned again but this time with clear antagonism. "I expected such a thoughtless response from you, Jones. Every decision you've made thus far is a blatant display of thoughtlessness, and even now is no exception. The evidence is plainly visible in the dismal state of your country."

Alfred threw his head back. "Great, I'm being lectured by a hallucination."

"You may brush me off as a hallucination," the other America continued, his words fluid yet biting, "but that does not make my assertions any less true. Only the most unstable of countries fall into civil war, and that is America. "

Alfred stared at his ceiling peevishly, lamenting the fact he hadn't been blessed with the ability to turn his ears off, but his defiance only seemed to encourage the other in his endless scorn.

"You have failed time and again to make a lasting decision on all that could possibly be a threat to a nation's welfare—slavery, tariffs, and even an interpretation of that constitution you hold such _high regard_ for. You are the reason for such aggression within the nation. You are the reason why America is crumbling—"

"I don't need _you_ to tell me about any of this!" Losing the battle of legendary patience, Alfred slammed his palm against the fine mahogany surface of his desk, anger flickering behind his usually blithe blue eyes. "I tried all I can to prevent the war, I really did! But, the people—what can I do when the people are split into such polar extremes? There was nothing I could do—ever since the beginning—nothing! If war must happen, then so be it. Everything will settle in the end. America will get through!"

"Such hopeful foolishness," the other continued, eyes hard with reproach. "Are you planning to jump into civil war without the tiniest modicum thought, just like you had done with the fight for independence? Your victory was sheer luck, if nothing else. Had it not been for England's psychological frailty, you would now be six feet below the earth with a bullet through your remarkably thick skull. Miracles rarely happen twice, Jones, and nobody will take pity on you this time when you are fighting amongst yourself."

"I don't _need_ anyone to take pity on me!" Alfred flared from both angry exasperation and emerging guilt. "I don't need anyone's help! I'm a nation, and this is civil war. No one else belongs here! This is something I have to overcome on my own!" His eyes darkened, and his voice lowered to a somber whisper, barely comprehensible. "And don't mention England. You don't know anything about England."

"England does not matter now." The other America softened his tone as well. "Europe does not matter. No one else belongs here, I agree. I am America too. What you feel, I feel. What you desire, I desire. You are raw—inexperienced, Jones. Allow me to help you."

"You—how can you expect—"Alfred breathed out weakly, burying his face into his hands, his mind exhausted. "How can you expect me to agree to such—You _can't _help me. You're just part of my head—the part that's losing it. What can you possibly tell me that I don't already—"

"Mr. Jones…" There was a faint knock on the door before a woman appeared behind it. "I'm sorry to disrupt you, but the president would like to see you now…" Her voice trailed off in skeptical revelation. "Mr. Jones…weren't you discussing something with someone just now?"

Alfred was almost as surprised as she was upon realizing the vacancy of armchair before him. "I-I…I," Alfred flushed and stammered, "N-No, no I wasn't—Thank you for telling me. I will go see him right away."

Alfred rose from his chair and walked past the woman, ignoring her perplexed expression. He did not attempt to explain to her his previous shouting match with an empty chair. The last thing he needed was for his budding insanity to be publicized, and unless it had reached the point of absolute severity, Alfred would like it to remain buried forever. He closed his door quietly behind him and sighed; he was going to have a long talk with the president.

* * *

Alfred calmed himself, listening to the rhythmic patter of horse hooves on dirt road as he rested leisurely at the head of the carriage. He gripped loosely on the reigns, only using them occasionally to steer. He did not rush his horse, paying no regard to the slow dallying pace at which they were moving. As long as he reached his destination, he did not mind lingering on the way.

Alfred reminisced over the events that occurred earlier that day, his withdrawal from the white house. He had decided to take an indefinite leave of absence due to his peculiar health issue, although he never actually admitted to being delirious. He did not want the president to worry, or send him to an asylum, not that it would be of any benefit. Sicknesses induced by civil strife could only heal once civil strife was over—history had taught him that—and therefore, Alfred must deal with this burden alone.

Nevertheless, his health was not the only reason for him to shy away from the battlefield. If it were any other war with any other country, Alfred would have jumped into the battlefield alongside his men without hesitation. But this was _civil _war and both sides were his. Allying with one would mean abandoning the other, and Alfred could not possibly do so. The president was no doubt disappointed to hear of Alfred's departure; _how would the people react? _He needed not to worry, Alfred believed, for he had great generals, such as the headstrong Ulysses S. Grant, by his side, and there was really no need for Alfred to be there. The Union would cope without.

Alfred sighed into the soft summer air, the golden sunlight warm against his skin. He smiled wistfully at the idle sky, musing at nature's failure to foreshadow the devastation and bloodshed that would soon sweep over this beautiful land. He felt guilt building steadily in the pit of his stomach, though he believed it shouldn't. After all, this trip was far from a vacation; he had his own troubles to deal with, and unless his condition remedied, he would be completely useless to either side.

"Where are you taking us, Jones?"

Alfred flinched at the sudden inquiry, desperately attempting to suppress his shock before any notable sounds escaped from his treacherous vocal chords. He gave a disdainful glance towards the unwanted visitor who now sat at his side, watching with determined eyes. "Okay, _this_ is why you're a hallucination."

"What are you talking about?" The other furrowed his brows.

"You sure weren't _in_ the carriage when I left the white house!"

The hallucination had the decency to laugh. "By that logic, I might as well be a ghost."

Alfred swallowed, turning away from the other's pretentious smile. It had never occurred to him that the other could actually be a ghost. Alfred had always imagined ghosts to be morbidly pale, skeletal, hideous, and terrifying, but the other America did not appear that way. He looked like Alfred, and Alfred was anything but the descriptions listed.

"You are afraid of ghosts. I cannot believe you are!" The other America laughed, thoroughly amused.

Alfred scowled, trying his best to ignore the other's presence and finding such task to be impossibly difficult.

"Do not fret," the other America continued, "I am no ghost. I am very alive and very real. Now tell me, where are we going?"

Alfred responded irately, keeping his eyes steadily on the road ahead. "_I_ cannot participate in the war because _I_ am sick—very sick—and until I get better, I will be a danger to myself and to the ones around me. Therefore, I'm going home to rest."

The perpetual grin plastered on the other's face quickly dissipated to angry contortion. "How can you _rest_ during such a crucial time? Do you_ not care_ what becomes of your country? Turn the carriage around this instant, Jones!"

"Turn around?" Alfred said with stubborn defiance, "And do what? There is nothing I can do. I'm America, and I can't fight with myself."

The hallucination lowered his tone—dark, vehement, and very much like the voice of Hell. "You may fool some with this pretense of neutrality, but you know as well as I that a nation can only stand strong when united. As a country that previously emerged from revolution, you may feel some sympathy towards the South, but ask yourself, _who would want their nation to be split into two?_ You may not willingly admit it, but your mind is already allied with the North, the side that is striving for unification. Therefore this act of neutrality not the noble gesture you would like to believe, but a blatant display of indecisive cowardliness."

Alfred paid no heed to the other's angry assertions, retorting coldly, "Like I said, I am very sick, and I am of little use until I get better. But you are welcomed to get off my carriage. In fact, that would do wonders to the progression of my health. So, please, whenever you feel ready."

The hallucination remained thankfully silent for the rest of the trip, although the tension between the two was as thick as humid midsummer air. Alfred groaned inwardly to himself as he felt the daggers of the other's eyes bearing into his skin, and fought the urge to squirm under the pressure. He needed to rest, to regain his composure, and to pick up the tiny fragments of his mind that were still functional before all was lost, but he doubted he would achieve any peace of mind at home. Home would be a whole new battlefield, a war between him and his disillusioned self, and winning would be everything, because losing this war would mean losing his sanity.

* * *

Author: Good beginning for a possibly, plotty longfic? Yes? No?

I'm a slow writer and I apologize OTL

Tell me if I made grammar errors :3


	4. Chapter 2: Brothers

Author: I decided to pick my stories up now. Sorry if people waited a long time :C

Oh and the section separation of all my chapters got messed up, so sorry you you get like a billion messages.

* * *

_**And If You Don't Love Me**_

Chap 2: Brothers

_Alfred Jones, you are truly impeccable._

Matthew Williams sat sternly at his desk, staring blankly at the thick Canadian woods outside OF his office window. He was restless, too close to the civil strife in America, the violence and blood shed that plagued the country just below him. He could not see smoke pillars or flames, but he could feel it. Every gun shot, fired cannon, and fallen soldier were distant tremors in his head, insignificant yet significant, discountable yet enough to drive him insane.

Worrying seemed to consume most of his conscious time, and now that war had spread to America, especially to America, Matthew feels as if he could not sit still any longer.

Although Alfred had always been more ambitious, more daring, and more reckless, Matthew still had more in common with him than anyone. They were discovered, influenced, and even loved by the same countries. They spoke the same language, shared similar cultures and experiences, and lived through the same crossfire between world powers. They were brothers; seeds planted together long ago and molded to become a splitting image of Europe.

But of course, Alfred refused to be like his older brothers. He rejected the royalty, the rules, and the relations. Was that ungratefulness or ambition? Foolishness or valor? Did Alfred make a mistake? Could this all have been avoided if America remained a colony? Or was Europe's grasp on the new nation doomed ever since the beginning? There were many possibilities, many roads not taken, but mulling over the past would not help the present condition, Matthew realized that.

Alfred was all alone now; no more brothers to help him, no more aid, no more borrowed soldiers. Europe wanted nothing to do with this war, and neither did Matthew. But he worried for Alfred, because he and Alfred were a like. They were both young nations, raw and naïve, but unlike Matthew, Alfred stood alone against the rest of the world.

For the sake of his former brother, maybe it was time for Matthew to do something reckless.

* * *

Alfred woke up to a dull ache all over his body. He felt as if he had slept for an eternity, his limbs taut and heavy from prolonged stillness. Nonetheless, he was not a bit rested; a heavy beat pounded steadily against his fragile eggshell skull, closely imitating the rhythmic ticking of a clock. Time ceased to exist during the weeks that Alfred detached himself from the rest of the world. His illness worsened, for he found himself unconscious most of the time, passing out periodically and often waking to a completely different setting. However, the only constancy seemed to be the presence of the other America, always looming closely by with his trademark visage of resentment and mockery. And this time was no different, as Alfred lifted his head to find the other sitting idly by the foot of his bed.

"You have a visitor," he said nonchalantly, waving a hand in the general direction of the window.

Alfred turned to find a white bird fluttering against his window pane, a note tied securely to one of its claws.

"Who's it from, Jones?" The other America shifted closer to Alfred, eyeing him curiously as he detached the note.

Alfred had half a mind to tell the other off, but all of his hostility vanished upon realizing the sender of the note. "My brother…Matt—Canada, I mean. He's coming to stay here for awhile…" He heaved a sigh. "I haven't talked to him since 1812…"

"Oh?" The other raised a brow.

Alfred closed his eyes and leaned against the backboard of his bed, contemplating. "It didn't last too long—that war. The French and British were blockading coasts and capturing ships. Some American ships got caught in between so we declared war. It was rather impulsive, actually."

"History, I am well aware of," the other America scowled, "but what surprises me is how flippantly you dismiss such an outright insult to our nation."

"I _was_ angry." Alfred said mutedly. "…But it was nearly five decades ago. I—"

"Did you forget the impressment of American naval officers into the Royal Navy, Jones?" The other watched Alfred, full of scornful judgement.

"No, I remember." Alfred winced as the grim reminder stuck a tender wound.

"Or Britain's impediment on American expansion?"

"I know. I was there. I—"

"Or maybe you forgot the complete incineration of our capital under British hands." The other continued relentlessly, mercilessly, until Alfred finally cracked.

"Shut up! For Christ's sake!" Alfred broke into a fit of fury, his patience long wasted. "I don't need you telling me any of this! Of course I remember! How can I fucking forget? It was England! It was A-Arthur! E-Even after I became a nation…He still…I still c-cant…" _I still can't compare…_

"And what about Canada?" The other resumed without care.

"What _about_ Canada?" Alfred sighed wearily, no longer wishing to participate in this dialogue

"He remains loyal to Britain."

"Yes, I _know_ that."

"He is your twin bother, and yet he remains loyal to Britain. He is oppressed under the same empire as you were, and yet he remains loyal to Britain. You fought for eight long years, paving a road to independence with nothing but the blood and sweat of your men, and when you asked him to join you, he refused. The sacrifices he needed to achieve freedom would have been nothing compared to yours—after all, you did all the dirty work—and yet, he still remains loyal to Britain. Perplexing, isn't it?"

Alfred gritted his teeth. "You better be going somewhere with this."

The other America grinned. "What I'm trying to convey, my dense friend, is that Canada is no brother of yours, just like England is no brother of yours. He is not a welcomed guest here. So, what do you plan on doing, Jones?"

Alfred closed his eyes and sighed. "Nothing."

"_Nothing_?"

"Nothing." Alfred waved the note at the other America irately. "You think this is some kind of a _request _for invitation? He's not _asking_ to come here, he's telling. Which means he's already on his way. Which means there's nothing I can do to stop him."

Irritation quickly swept over the other's features, but Alfred paid no heed as he impatiently separated himself from his bed, continuing his ranting while rummaging the room for his scattered clothes. "He sure is some character, that Canada. He lets you step all over him most of the time, but once he actually puts his foot down, there is literally no escape from that will of steel of his. He'll nag at you until your ears grow calluses. He'll follow your every footstep until you start to wonder whether you two are actually jointed at some vital organ, incapable of being apart. He'll—" Alfred paused to stare at the illusion thoughtfully. "—Actually, he'll probably get along great with you."

The other opened his mouth for retort, but Alfred quickly filled the void with his own speech again before the other could begin. "But, you needn't worry. He won't be staying long. He's just being the fusspot he has always been since the dawn of time. Time changes nothing, you know? He'll leave as soon as he sees that I'm perfectly well on my own. And of course, in order for me to seem well, I can't be talking to you. Therefore, if you want him gone so badly, it might be in your best interest to disappear from my sight. I—"

Alfred blinked a few times as he fumbled with his shirt buttons, his vision growing dimmer and duller. The walls around him began to spin, and all his surroundings meshed together into a swirl of beige and brown. He instinctively groped around for something tangible, but soon realized that even the solid ground he stood on had become illusionary.

"Are you sick, Jones?" the other America asked indifferently, his voice nothing but a distant echo, before everything faded to black.

* * *

Matthew was already overwhelmed with regret and uncertainty as he approached Alfred's home in Virginia, a lone mansion on the outskirts of Jamestown. He arrived on horseback in the late afternoon, the setting sun painting the sky in brisk streaks of orange and red. The wind rustled in the leaves and the birds frantically chirped, and Matthew had never felt so alone, standing before a large, almost eerie mansion, without a soul in sight. He swallowed hard as he descended his horse, gently stroking the tired animal's nose before bringing his gaze to his destination again.

After learning of Alfred's temporary withdrawal from the White House, Matthew had decided to do that same, and enter America not as Canada but as Matthew Williams, a Canadian. There were benefits to this seemingly reckless decision. He was granted freedom of mobility in the other country, no longer restricted by soldiers or guards. He could easily blend into the populace, into any shop or bar. And most important of all, he would not be dragging other countries into America's war, and England might never find out that he was here, theoretically.

And of course, with pros there were cons, and perhaps the most nerve-racking drawback of all was that Matthew was stuck in a foreign country alone, in the midst of a civil war, knowing no one except a former brother whom he had no contact with for nearly five decades.

Matthew gathered up all his nerves before he shyly approached the mansion's front door, finding it unlocked and slightly open.

_How careless of you._ Matthew frowned as he gave the door a small push, nudging it open slowly as the rusty hinges of the door released a muted squeak. He was not entirely surprised at the dismal condition of the interior of the house. He knew that Alfred would be ill. The civil war had wasted away his health after all, forcing him to withdraw from the white house. Thus, Matthew was willing to overlook the dust, the fallen furniture, the unwashed dishes and scattered clothes.

"Alfred!" Matthew shouted into the empty house, before taking a few tentative steps inside. "Alfred, it's Matthew!"

He waited a few seconds but was only greeted by stony silence. Surely Alfred had gotten the note and knew that he was coming. "Alfred, are you okay?" Matthew yelled again.

Matthew heard the door slam from behind him as the room quickly grew dim. He swung around immediately, eyes still adjusting to his new shadowy surrounding, for the only light source now were the faint glow of closed curtains. He soon recognized the shadowing figure that stood smugly between him and the exit.

"Alfred?" Matthew breathed out nervously.

The figure that resembled Alfred grinned. "Please, call me America."

* * *

Author: It turns out that I'll continue anything if people nag me enough.

Review if you like it please~


	5. Chapter 3: Choice

Author: This story takes me forever orz;;

There are so many things about the Civil War Era that I don't know. So basically I'm reviewing my history while writing this. Bear with me please.

And thanks for the comments. You guys really motivate me ;)

* * *

_**And If You Don't Love Me**_

Chap 3: Choice

Matthew took a few hesitant steps back, eventually hitting the back of an arm chair. Alfred, or whom he believed to be Alfred, casually strolled along the walls, maneuvering skillfully despite the dark as he sparked the wall candles with a lighter, illuminating the room in a dull amber glow. Matthew noticed again the dismal condition of the interior of the house—the turned over furniture, scratched wallpaper, and broken glass—but said nothing. He carefully followed his host with his eyes, unsure of how to communicate with this new America.

"You should be well aware," America finally said, eyes never leaving the wall ornaments, "That you are not welcomed here, Canada."

Matthew swallowed nervously. He knew Alfred would not greet him with open arms—after all, the last time they met, they had muskets pointed at each other—but he hoped that Alfred would soon realize that his intentions were sincere. Alfred was a former brother, a childhood friend, and despite all of Matthew's efforts in trying to forget for past few decades, he still worried, especially now when Alfred was falling apart.

"Alfred, please listen to me," Matthew began, "I know you're hurt and sick because of the war. I just want to—"

"Why do you insist on calling me Alfred?" America said boredly.

"Because that's your name." Matthew blinked, slowly and carefully maneuvering closer to the nation. "I've always called you Alfred, but do you prefer America now?"

America swung around with a pistol in his hand aimed at Matthew's forehead, and Matthew froze in mid-step, quickly comprehending that his former brother might be more unstable than he had anticipated.

"Yes, I do, actually," America replied, his expression unreadable, "You seem to forget how I had come to obtain that name."

"From Arthur." Matthew nervously stared into the barrel of the gun. Alfred—or America—wouldn't actually pull the trigger, right?

"_England_. Yes. And I have no intention in keeping that pet name," America scoffed.

"Ar—_England_ never intended it to be a pet name—" Matthew was interrupted by the clicking of Alfred's pistol, and he swallowed again, wondering if reasoning with this dangerous gun-wielding America was a smart idea.

"I despise England," America scowled, "And I despise his mindless subordinates."

"I'm not here on behalf of England," Matthew persisted, "I'm here because I wanted to come. I know you're independent now, and I know you don't want anything to do with us. But we were brothers. For a long time…I don't want to see you hurt."

America gave a low chuckle. "Well aren't you just a little fool?"

"Excuse me?"

"If you came today with the purest intention to mend our relationship," America grinned, lowering the gun while extending his free hand, "There is only one way. I've asked you once, and I'll ask you again. Join me."

Matthew tensed, recalling their last meeting, the last war where he was forced to choose one brother over another. "…I didn't come today for this."

America's grin faltered as he stepped closer to Matthew, forcing the Canadian to retreat back to his original position by the armchair. "How long do you plan to hang onto them like a helpless toddler? Europe will never treat you as one of them."

"Please. Don't make me choose again—"

America grabbed a fistful of Matthew's collar, and Matthew instinctively clutched at his assaulter's wrist. "You should have chosen me," America said darkly, his grip shockingly tight.

"H-How can I possibly choose between you a-and _Arthur_?" Matthew gasped.

"Because I am you brother!" America shouted spitefully, throwing Matthew to the floor. "_Real_ brother! By blood! Not _established_ by some ridiculous pact!

Matthew grunted as his back hit the hard wooden floor, and America's foot quickly came down onto his sternum, trapping him there. "Arthur loved you," Matthew panted as he struggled against the weight, his panic level steadily rising.

"_England_ is a tyrant. He did not love, he used. I was nothing but a tool. _You_ are nothing but a tool."

"That's a lie! He loved you more than anything! And you made him cry! I hated you for that!"

America smirked as he dug his heel further into the other's chest. "Is that supposed to make me feel guilty?"

"You're really an ungrateful bastard!" Matthew spat out, his hopes in rekindling long gone. "This is your fault. This is what you get. You are unfit to be a nation. Arthur loved you. He did all he could to protect you, to keep the rest of the world in check, for _you_. But you're so incredibly dense. You just can't comprehend that in order for you to be safe, Arthur needed to leave, to fight in wars, to impose laws. No, you ignorant, spoiled child. This is what you get."

"Why you little—" America gritted his teeth, anger mounting. The foot on Matthew's chest was replaced with a knee, and long fingers quickly encircled Matthew's throat.

"Are you surprised, Alfred?" Matthew whispered with effort, his oxygen in limited supply. "You never thought I could say something like this to you face…You know what changed? You did. You've gone insane. I think you'll really kill me. And this is something I have to tell you before I die. Because no one else will tell you this. No one else knows."

America scowled, tightening his grip.

"I won't become your territory," Matthew managed to say with his last breaths before losing consciousness. "I can't do what you did to Arthur. I'm not that cruel."

* * *

Matthew woke up to the frantic pounding on his already sore chest and a wail that sounded far too familiar. "Matt! Matty! Oh God, wake up! Please, please wake up!"

"Alfred?" Matthew peeked one eye open and was immediately pulled into a tight embrace.

"Thank God you're awake!" Alfred half-sobbed. "I-I thought you died. You weren't breathing or anything."

"I'm fine now," Matthew said as soothingly as possible, his voice strained and raspy and his head dazed and confused. He gently stroked Alfred's back out of instinct, and Alfred immediately broke away.

Matthew finally got a good glance at Alfred. He looked even more insane than before, a total mess—pale, thin, startled—but Matthew felt safer, more familiar now. This was the Alfred that was once his brother.

"I-I'm sorry, Matt," Alfred said sullenly, his fingers gently grazing the darkening marks on Matthew's neck. "I had no idea he could do this."

"Who's he?" Matthew asked quietly, more perplexed than ever.

"He's me. Or at least he looks like me. I thought he was just a hallucination. No one else can see him, but he's so real. I don't know what to do, Matt. I would never hurt you like this, but he made me do it somehow. Oh God, he could have killed you!" Alfred continued to ramble on, voice trembling from trepidation.

"Alfred." Matthew placed a hand on his shoulder, quieting him. "You need to get help."

"No one's going to help me." Alfred rose to his feet abruptly and backed away. "No one _can_ help me! This is because of the war, Matt. And it's not going to go away for a long time. But you. This doesn't involve you, and you need to leave."

"I'm not leaving you like this." Matthew slowly stood up. "You're sick."

"I know I'm sick, God damn it!" Alfred flipped over a chair, desperate and angry. "He's going to come back, and he's going to want to kill you again! You have to get out of here!"

"But Al—"

"Don't be an idiot!" Alfred shouted again, close to tears this time. "You can't do anything for me. A-And if you die…I don't want you to die, Matt…I'm going to lock myself somewhere. It won't stop him, but it'll slow him down…. If I never see you again, it'll only mean that you're safe. So please just leave."

Matthew stood silently as he watched Alfred dash through the corridor and out of sight. What was he to do now? He could have very well died during the last encounter with that other America, the ring of bruises around his throat a grim reminder. But he immediately dismissed the thought of leaving Alfred alone, especially after witnessing first-hand his unstable state of mind. As much as Alfred was a danger to others, he was also a danger to himself. Would Matthew's presence help keep Alfred sane, or would his death just serve as another blotch on Alfred's conscience?

* * *

Alfred bolted blindly through rooms, halls, and corridors, pushing through doors and fallen furniture, until he finally stumbled into the room furthest away from where Matthew stood. He slammed the door shut and locked it before tossing chairs and dressers and desks between him and the exit. Alfred took out his pistol and turned to face the apparently empty room.

"I know you're in here, you asshole!" He shouted into empty space. "Show yourself, God damn it!"

The figure of the other America gradually appeared in the corner of the room, leaning leisurely against the wall, and before he could even say a greeting, Alfred pulled the trigger. The bullet went right through the hallucination, but Alfred continued to fire until all the shots were spent. At least they won't be used on Matthew or anyone else.

"This really pains me on the inside, Jones." The other America said dryly.

Alfred hurled the empty gun too. "How dare you do that to Matthew!"

"What are you talking about? It was you."

"Shut the fuck up! I would never do anything like that!"

The other America tilted his head and grinned. "It was your hands."

"It wasn't my head!" Alfred shouted back, fists clenched and anger flaring, wanting so badly to hurt the man before him but couldn't. "What did you do to me, you bastard!"

"Calm down, Jones." The other America separated himself from the wall casually. "I had no intention in killing him."

"So what the fuck was that all about?"

"There is no need to yell. I'm right here." The hallucination winced a little before strolling towards the window. "I just wanted to scare him a little. Teach him not to meddle. But apparently, the boy didn't learn his lesson."

"What are you talking about?" Alfred shoved his way to the window to find Matthew making his way into a small shed two floors below.

"I wonder what he would be looking for in the pigeonry, Jones." The other America said bitingly.

"N-No," Alfred shook his head, "He wouldn't get other countries involved. That's insane."

Alfred backed away from the window, feeling nauseous again as the room spun around, an experience far too familiar. He knew he was going to hit the floor soon as he searched the swirls of colors for the other America. "Stay away from him," he managed to say, but even he knew that his command would not be obeyed.

* * *

Author: Review please. I love it when people give me stuff to read~

And Arthur will probably show up in the next chapter. I'll be focusing on him more from now on.


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